


twelve days, five hours, thirty-seven minutes

by brevity_ofwit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Apologies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt tracks down Jaskier after the mountain and apologises, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, there's angst and a looooot of fluff, this is me writing an episode 7 just for these dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevity_ofwit/pseuds/brevity_ofwit
Summary: After the fight on King Niedamir's mountain, Geralt tracks down Jaskier and follows him secretly as he works his way to Oxenfurt. Once there, Jaskier spots him and Geralt has to think of something to say, fast, before he loses his only chance to apologize.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 148





	twelve days, five hours, thirty-seven minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some fluff because I rewatched ep6 and made myself sad. They deserved better!
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> unbeta'd as always

Twelve days, five hours, thirty seven minutes. 

That was the exact moment Jaskier, the best thing to ever grace Geralt’s life, left him.

Was forced away from him. _He_ had been responsible. _He_ had been the one lashing out with harsh words, with careless untruths. 

There was once a time he’d thought himself above such things. Such a lack of control. He was a _witcher_ for fuck’s sake. He was bred with the strength of ten men, so why couldn’t he act with an ounce of control of even _one_?

It took him one day to leave the mountain top. He’d sat on a stone at the edge of the cliff and stared at the sun until it too ran away from him, then stared some more at the twinkling stars with such unbridled fury. How perfect they were, settled above so out of reach watching as his life fell to pieces before him. 

It took him four days to track down the last sighting of the bard. 

“Has a bard passed through here recently?” Geralt asked a local of the town he’d just recently stopped in. Gelibol, a thumbprint on the map just skirting greater Redania. It was of the nicer places Geralt had been, with a market and more than one option for room and board, though not by much. 

“There was a young lad just yesterday, but he didn’t do much singing,” informed the elderly man. Geralt eyed him carefully, his open demeanor, his holed gloves and patched coat, the beaten boots on his feet, and the soot tracks streaked across his face. Blacksmith, if he were to guess. The lingering smell of fire and molten iron gave him away. “You just missed him, witcher. Left just this morning, quite early. Didn’t look like he’d gotten any sleep, I’d say.”

“Which way?” 

The blacksmith pointed a crooked finger southeast. Geralt nodded in thanks, then took off on Roach following the path, kicking up dust from the dry earth as he went. He could faintly hear the man coughing because of it, but couldn’t spare the guilt. Geralt had enough as it were. 

It took five days after that to actually catch up to Jaskier, but Geralt kept his distance. When he heard the melancholy singing from a tavern in Tretogar, he found a secluded clearing in the forest to camp down for the night and waited for the bard to make his next move. 

It was on this night that the full weight of the situation hit him. Every hurtful thing he’d said, not only on the mountain but in the two decades they’d traveled together, swirled in his mind. How rude he had been, how closed off, how unaccepting, how downright cruel. 

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

How could he have said that? Now, having been just days without Jaskier by his side, he was more miserable than he could ever remember himself being. The Path was suddenly lonely, the nights too quiet, the days too bright for the storm he felt raging inside him. Even Roach was sulkier than normal, giving him clipped neighs whenever he tried to talk to her. 

He couldn’t think of a single reason Jaskier would want to stay with him, song material or not. He doesn’t think even _he’d_ stay with himself. For what seemed hours, Geralt dwelt on this, kneeling beside Roach in a self-deprecating meditation. He felt haunted, the ghost of a scorned companion hiding in every nook and cranny of his mind.

_Rounded blue eyes, welling with tears. “So long, Geralt.”_

He slept little, if at all, and for the first time in many years, Geralt felt like crying.

Earlier than he expected, Jaskier emerged from the tavern looking ragged and worn, heading east. Geralt tailed him from the treeline, taking care to muffle any noises he or Roach might make. It hadn’t been too difficult; he was trained in stealth, and Roach was accustomed to the need for silence, so she was light-hooved even in through brambles. 

For the next two days, Geralt followed Jaskier as he worked his way toward Oxenfurt. The bard was surprisingly quick-paced, though, from the hunch in his shoulders and the lack of playing, Geralt guessed he was really more pushing himself through each step. He covered an incredible distance for being on foot, making sparing stops to relieve himself or find running water. It made Geralt admire just how dogged Jaskier could be, given his lighthearted disposition. 

When they finally arrived in Oxenfurt, Geralt realized he had a problem. There would be no way to enter the city without alerting Jaskier of his presence. So, on the night of the twelfth day, he made camp in the woods once again. He could tell Roach was less than pleased, but there was nothing to be done. To make up for it, he gave her what was left of his food and promised he’d find her some apples when he could. When he laid down for the night, he found he could not sleep. The bustle from the city and the anticipation of seeing Jaskier again, along with the overwhelming guilt he felt, was too much. He opted for some light meditation, but even that was difficult. Several hours later, in the early light of dawn, he braced himself for the inevitable and made his way with Roach into the city. 

It didn’t take long for word to spread of a Witcher in Oxenfurt. When he reached The Alchemy, an inn he was mildly familiar with from his few stops there previously, the innkeeper was already expecting him. 

“What’ll it be, Witcher?” the man asked gruffly, arms crossed behind the bar. Geralt eyed this man wearily, taking in the juxtaposition of his stance and his somewhat friendly greeting. 

“I need a room for the night,” Geralt said, and then scrunched his eyes with how easily the man nodded and went to retrieve a key. 

As he waited, he glanced around the establishment and noted it was relatively the same as when he’d last been there. Beaten wood of the tables, a stone fireplace on the opposite wall, two dirty windows overlooking the busy streets of the city. It was scarcely occupied, but Geralt guessed it wouldn’t be long until the regulars started trickling in, one by one. 

“Here we are,” said the innkeeper as he reemerged from the backroom. He held a tarnish bronze key out to Geralt and continued, “Your rooms up the stairs and the last door on the left. Baths require an hour’s notice, just to heat the water, and there’s a stable out back if you need it.”

Geralt took the key and nodded, then headed back outside to Roach and left her in the hands of the stablehand. With that settled away, he made for the market to find her some apples, and hopefully to scope out where Jaskier might be. He doubted he’d see him in the streets, but part of him hoped that maybe he would. What he would do, Geralt didn’t yet know. Perhaps he’d pull Jaskier aside into an alleyway and beg for Jaskier’s forgiveness. Perhaps Jaskier would catch one look at him and hightail it in the opposite direction. Geralt wouldn’t blame him, though he ached at the idea. 

The bustle on the streets made his head pound, and every five steps he’d be barreled into by someone new. Each time, they’d swing around to yell at him, and each time, they’d see him for the Witcher he was and hastily make their retreat. Geralt brushed it off, but the looks on their faces lingered with him. It wasn’t exactly fear, but a close relative of it. 

A stand on the right side of the street caught Geralt’s eye, ruby apples standing out in the grey early morning haze. He immediately made for them and bought three, acutely aware of his limited supply of coin. With the fruit stored safely in his pack, he ambled in the direction he remembered an apothecary being. He was low on ingredients for his potions but doubted he’d get very much with just ten crowns. He’d have to check the board for any postings of monster attacks soon. 

Instead of finding an apothecary, Geralt found himself at the garden just before the long drawbridge to the Academy. He must’ve taken a wrong turn, but before he could turn away, a familiar mop of brown hair caught his eye.

_Jaskier_ , making his way from within the walls of the Academy. His head was bowed toward a book he was reading, so there was no real chance of Jaskier seeing him. But even then, Geralt felt his pulse quicken and the palms of his hand sweating inside his leather gloves. 

Oh, fuck. It was too early. He wasn’t prepared to face him, didn’t have the slightest clue what to say. An apology felt like too little, too late. Would Jaskier even want to talk to him? He doubted the bard would give him the time of day. 

Just then, Jaskier glanced up to check where he was going and spotted him. He froze in place and visibly paled. Geralt could’ve sworn he’d even heard him gulp. But instead of the bard turning around and running the opposite way, he hastily shoved his book into the satchel at his side and marched toward the witcher, looking angrier with each step. Self-preservation told Geralt to get the hell out of there, but the more rational part of him knew he shouldn’t or it’d make matters worse. So he stood there and watched as Jaskier approached him, gaining speed until he was full out sprinting down the bridge. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry,” Geralt blurted, and then was bodily tackled to the cobblestone ground.

“You. Utter. _Bastard_!” Jaskier yelled, sitting astride him and emphasizing his words with a punch to Geralt’s chest. It didn’t hurt physically, but Geralt felt them resonate within him regardless, each blow going directly to his heart. Passersby had stopped to openly gape at the scene, shocked that a witcher could be taken down by such a spindly man, that he would let himself be.

“How _dare_ you show up here, after tailing me for weeks,” Jaskier ranted, but the beating of his fists slowed until he was weakly clinging to Geralt’s armor. “How dare you abandon me on the mountain as you did.”

“Jask,” Geralt started.

“No! Don’t you dare _Jask_ me! Not after all the shit you’ve put me through,” he fumed, cheeks red and eye blazing. “I should hurt you.”

“I’d deserve it.”

“I should- I should kick your _ass_. Right here! In the streets, for everyone to see.” He let go of Geralt’s armor to gesture with one hand to the people still gawping at them. 

“Show them what happens,” he continued, but his eyes began to water and his voice filled with emotion, “when you break someone’s heart and cast them off like they’re nothing more than _garbage_.”

“Jaskier, please,” he begged, staring beseechingly into Jaskier’s eyes. The redness of tears seemed to accentuate their blueness, as they stood out like brilliant sapphires. “Can we talk?”

“I don’t want to,” Jaskier said. Then, after another moment of them staring at each other, Jaskier released his armor with a huff and lifted himself off Geralt, patting down his pant legs as he stood. “But I will. Because even if you don’t deserve it, I can’t say no to you.”

He said it with such bitterness that it tore at Geralt’s heart even more. Gods, he had really fucked this one up. 

With a grunt, he heaved himself off the ground and followed Jaskier as the man made his way off the bridge and toward the gardens alongside the river. There was something familiar about the way Jaskier watched that Geralt recognized from the days he’d spent following him from the treeline. Determination. Of the forced, ‘I’d-rather-be-doing-anything-else’ type. Again, admiration bloomed in his chest, alongside a large amount of gratitude that Jaskier was even willing to speak to him.

Jaskier led them to a bend beneath an overgrown weeping tree, well secluded by the branches and multiple tall bushes surrounding it. Once beneath the tree, Jaskier stopped and spun on his heel, facing Geralt with his arms crossed and a carefully neutral look on his face. 

“Alright,” Jaskier prompted. “Talk.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Geralt began, but was cut off by a scoff. 

“That’s rich,” Jaskier muttered but motioned for Geralt to continue. 

“I _meant_ , I don’t know what to say that could possibly convey how sorry I am for hurting you.” At that, Jaskier sobered, suddenly paying very close attention to what Geralt was saying. “My actions, my words, are unforgivable. I have been needlessly cruel to you, Jaskier, when all you’ve ever been is loyal and kind. If there was anything I could do to earn your forgiveness, know I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Jaskier didn’t say anything for a very long while, simply staring at Geralt as he stood there helplessly, looking more desperate by the minute. And then, without ceremony, he stepped forward and enveloped Geralt into a hug. Geralt was shocked, stock-still in Jaskier’s arms as Jaskier muttered into his ear, “You are forgiven, you utter brute.”

Overwhelmed, Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier and pulls him tightly to him, suddenly dizzy from relief.

Jaskier held him as he shook, soothing him with soft words. “There, there. I’ve got you, Geralt.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he rasped. “I don’t deserve _you_.”

“No,” Jaskier agreed, not unkindly. “But you have me anyway.”

They stayed like that for another long while, Jaskier swaying them beneath the weeping willow as Geralt worked on gaining control of himself. Finally, with a deep inhale, Geralt pulled back from the embrace but did not step out of Jaskier’s reach. Instead, he clasped Jaskier’s hands in his and made an effort to catch his eyes and keep them. 

“I have to confess something.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he nodded in assurance. 

“These past days have revealed more to me than I had ever realised. About myself, about how I. . . feel, towards you.” He inhaled once more, nerves getting the better of him. An image of Vesemir pops into his head, from a long-ago training session. 

_Be strong, Geralt. The Path of a Witcher is long and arduous and riddled with impossible tasks. Do not let your fear overpower you._

He steels himself.

“Jaskier, I have never felt more alone without you by my side. The days are endless and the nights are impossible to find rest in. But nothing I’ve ever experienced, not the horrors of battle or impossible hunts, can come close to the gaping silence of being without you.”

Jaskier’s eyes have grown misty again, but there’s a small smile on his face that Geralt takes as a good sign. He lifts a hand to Jaskier’s face and cradles it with all the gentleness his hard and calloused hand can muster, running the pad of his thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone. Jaskier leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering momentarily. 

“Jaskier,” he says, emboldened. “Jaskier, I think I’m in love with you.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, a single tear falling from his eye. Geralt is quick to wipe it away. “Geralt,” he says again, and again like it’s the only word he knows. 

“I love you, Jaskier,” he repeats. “I don’t know for how long, but it took losing you to realize just how much you meant to me. For that, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier shakes his head. Geralt frowns.

“I want to say it’s alright,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt’s heart instantly falls. Jaskier takes notice and covers the hand cupping his face with his own. “Hey, wait. I’m not done.” Geralt nods. “It’s not okay the way you’ve treated me. I have been nothing but a friend to you, and I didn’t deserve that. But Geralt. Geralt, look at me.”

He lifts his gaze to meet Jaskier’s eyes and is surprised by the conviction he finds there. 

“I love you, too.”

His heart stutters in his chest, then stops completely. He must have misheard, or maybe this was Jaskier getting back at him. No, he’d never do that. He’d never treat Geralt the way Geralt had treated him. 

“You do?” he asks, needing to hear it again. 

Jaskier nods. “I do. For so long it burns.”

“You burn for me?”

“I burn,” Jaskier affirmed. 

And then, the most amazing thing happened: Geralt cried. It started as a single tear at first, but the longer he looked into Jaskier’s eyes, the harder it became to hold it in. Jaskier wrapped him back in his arms and rubbed at his back through his armor, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He quickly led him to the bench at the trunk of the willow and lowered them both down, not taking his arms off Geralt for a second. 

“There now, love,” he said, brushing Geralt’s hair from his face. “It’s alright now. I’m here.”

“Jaskier,” he croaked, clinging to him like a lost child. “Jaskier, I- I lo-”

“I know, I know,” Jaskier shushed, rocking them again. 

“I love you-”

“I know, I know you do.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier just held him tighter. Minutes, maybe hours passed beneath that tree, Jaskier holding him and Geralt holding back just as tightly. When the tears had stopped and Geralt’s breaths came in a steady rhythm, Jaskier leaned back and smiled. 

“Come now. Let’s get you to a room. I bet you’re exhausted.”

Geralt nodded, then remembered The Alchemy and Roach in her stable there. “I have a room,” he said. 

“The Alchemy?” he asked. “Thought so. Let’s get you back so you can rest, and I can say hello to Roach.”

Geralt chuckles, allowing Jaskier to pull him off the bench to his feet and out from beneath the willow. They make their way toward the inn, and Geralt’s heart feels lighter than it has in decades. With Jaskier prattling on about how much he’d missed Roach and the sun shining at the backs, he felt finally at peace. And that feeling swelled when Jaskier reached between them and laced their fingers together, drawing them closer together. 

Geralt smiled down at him, uncaring of how lovestruck he looked. Jaskier looked back with a similar expression and stopped mid-stride to lean up and kiss him. It was an innocent press of lips, but Geralt felt it like a blow to his gut. When Jaskier pulled away, he struggled to open his eyes. When he did, it was to see Jaskier beaming at him. 

“I love you,” Geralt said. 

“I know,” Jaskier replied cheekily, then pulled Geralt along with him toward the inn. 

And everything was perfect, if only for the time being. For once, Geralt was unconcerned with that fact. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you all liked this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I did wayyyy too much research on the geography and spent like twenty minutes staring at Witcher map trying to reason out how quickly someone on foot could make it from Gelibol to Tretagor. (If you're curious, google a map and look in the top right corner, northeast of Kaedwan). Anyway,,,,, It's as accurate as I could possibly get it, and for absolutely no reason. 
> 
> Feel free to leave me comments! I'd love any feedback, even if it's just garbled gibberish or incoherent key-smashing. (Are those the same thing? Probably.)
> 
> Stay tuned! I've had a lot of inspiration recently, and am working on a loooong fic of adventure with these two, Ciri, and Yennefer!


End file.
